


captured

by limerental



Series: Witcher Ficletvember 2020 [3]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Torture, Imprisonment, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:54:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27527974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/limerental/pseuds/limerental
Summary: Her captors have hauled her into the mellow light of the comfortable interior of a tent, and before her kneels the very troubadour she has been seeking, looking flushed and harried but as comfortable as his surroundings. He hasn’t been sleeping on moldy straw, it seems.Ficletvember Day 3 - prompt:  hand holding & captured
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: Witcher Ficletvember 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2012020
Comments: 2
Kudos: 51





	captured

On the third night, she is woken from her miserable bed of damp straw and shuffled through the dark of the bandit camp, the strain of arms bound behind her back now ceasing to ache so much as burn, a constant seep of pain branded through her body. As her captors haul her through the dark, the quiet sounds of the sleeping camp shifts around her. Her stomach clenches with nausea. Luckily, the weak broth she had been fed at dinner does not make a reappearance. 

The hope has long fled that because this is no army that has captured her that perhaps she could escape during some mutinous skirmish or disorganized shuffle of command. Not likely, now that she has been here a number of days, guarded carefully and cuffed in chains that dampened even the slightest spark of magic. This bandit horde may not have the resources of a Nilfgaardian prison system or sadistic mage, but what they lack in power is made up for in cruelty.

Since the war’s end even your common group of ruffians has learned how to contain and confound a sorceress. Though she is not just any sorceress, she can do nothing but relent to them all the same, waiting with less and less patience for her moment to strike free.

Worse still, she has heard not a single word about the impetus of her unfortunate capture, the person of interest whose detainment she had heard rumors of and begrudgingly, as a favor to her Witcher, deigned to investigate. Said person being the impish troubadour who so often finds himself a victim of such unfortunate circumstances. But he is either no longer being kept here or–

“Yennefer!”

Her captors have hauled her into the mellow light of the comfortable interior of a tent, and before her kneels the very troubadour she has been seeking, looking flushed and harried but as comfortable as his surroundings. He hasn’t been sleeping on moldy straw, it seems.

“You animals,” says Jaskier, his hands extended toward her but not daring to touch. “Must she be kept in chains?”

“She’s a sorceress, Lord Viscount,” says one of the bandits at her arm, his shrug jostling her shoulder in a searing plume of pain. “Can’t be ‘aving 'er curse us all.”

“You should pray she only curses you. Loosen the chains at least. Please. This is cruel and unusual.”

“You ain’t in much of a position for–" 

"Do as the man says,” another voice echoes, more commanding. “May as well. He’ll be dead tomorrow anyway. Last request was to see her. So let him see her.”

The agony as the chains holding her shoulders taut are roughly loosened blurs out the rest of their chatter. Yennefer must lose brief consciousness because is next aware of staring at the flickering shadows across the canvas of the tent, something warm and solid behind her.

“Yennefer,” says a voice nearby. She focuses. Arms around her, a chin against her shoulder. “Yennefer, I’m sorry.”

She blinks and shifts her head to see him, the poet, his blue eyes red-rimmed and glassy with tears.

“Should be,” she manages, her voice an embarrassing croak. “Though this is not the best–” she draws a deep breath and feels out the pain in her ribs, her arms, her spine. “– rescue attempt on my part.”

“I’m a dead man,” says Jaskier solemnly. “Luckily, I’ve made my peace with it. It wasn’t even cuckoldry this time if you can believe that.”

“I heard,” says Yennefer, “that you called the Bandit Queen a… what was it?”

“Repulsive toad whose cruelty toward the weak makes her far, far uglier than even that,” says Jaskier. “And I meant every word. Granted, no clue she was the Bandit Queen. Thought she was the head of a traveling circus.”

Yennefer snorts.

“I heard you told her that as well.”

“Well, yes. Any performer worth his salt will have advice for a fellow jester.”

“And now you’re a dead man,” Yennefer hums. She does not quite have the strength to lift her head from his chest.

“Yes,” he says softly. “I hang tomorrow at dawn. When we reach the keep.”

“At least you will spend your last night in luxury.”

“Perks of noble birth. I would trade you if I could.”

“They wouldn’t have to hang you in that case. You wouldn’t last a night sleeping in straw.”

“Yes,” says Jaskier. His mouth has dipped to the swell of her shoulder where she realizes distantly that the muscle is shivering and flexing beyond her control. Her whole body shudders with it, involuntary.

“Have they posted the conditions of my release?” she asks. 

“A seat in the Lodge of Sorceresses. For the Queen.”

Yennefer laughs, though it aches through her trembling muscles. The warm arms tighten more firmly around her, the pressure easing some of the pain.

“I except a lengthy captivity then.”

“I am sorry,” says the troubadour against her shoulder. He is scared, she knows, terrified, but allows that fear to show only in the slight quiver of his voice. 

Careful fingers touch her wrist below the raw skin along the cuff and slip down to cup over top of her hand. Yennefer turns her shaking hand up to meet his, gritting her teeth against the pain, and his palm rubs against hers as their hands intertwine.

She tightens her fingers around his, clinging to the warmth of it, the strange familiarity. He is a brave man truly, braver than she expected. Soon to meet a brave but foolish end.

Somehow, it has been good to know him. When she is free again, she knows she will not rest until those who take him to the scaffold tomorrow are nothing but dust.

Jaskier sighs against her neck and clings to her hand just as fiercely as she does his.

And presses the flat of a key against the meat of her hand.


End file.
